Ed, my husband, in all his great wisdom this morning said, "It's like you're gay and in the closet. Except you're depressed and are afraid to tell anyone."

But how full of myself am I, that I'm not only a painter, but an artist, and a depressed one at that.

"I am very depressed and deeply disgusted with painting. It is really a continual torture." (Claude Monet)

The past few weeks have been exhausting on both myself and my family. I feel every bad thing in the whole world then nothing at all.

"I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top." (John Keats)

I slug around, moping and sleepy and can barely do a single thing in one day.

"Every act of life, from the morning toothbrush to the friend at dinner, became an effort. I hated the night when I couldn't sleep and I hated the day because it went toward night." (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

I struggle to express what's going on in my head only to mumble a bit and...

"To have gone to all this trouble to get to this is just too stupid! Outside there's brilliant sunshine but I don't feel up to looking at it..." (Claude Monet)

If I were to look at me from the outside, I'd kick myself in the arse and go shopping instead.

"What's the use? The people are too stupid. They do not understand." (Winslow Homer)

I am taking my life moment by moment. I do not know what I will eat for dinner tonight. I don't even know IF I will eat. I'm not even clear on what I'm doing now. I got up today and that's about the best I can offer you right now.

All I ask of you, dear reader is to give me a moment to collect my thoughts and stick around a bit longer as I'm sure the medicine will kick in soon enough and I will be painting quicker than you can say...